Chelsea Fine Sophie

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.Carter.CARTERMy mom’s not really alive anymore.She’s more like a walking, talking, stumbling, slurring ghost.I’m not mad at her, though.She’s sober sometimes; she’s crazy all the time.The pills don’t help.The doctors say she’s mentally ill, suffering from extreme hallucinations and paranoia, and the social workers say she should be admitted to a mental care facility.I’m told it’s only a matter of time before the state insists on taking her away.But she’s the only parent I have left so I’m not ready to let her go.Instead I keep her here and make sure she takes her pills.But the pills don’t help.It’s not her fault, though; the craziness…the alcohol.The man who is my father beat the crap out of her for twenty years.His repeated blows to her head damaged her brain.And now she self-medicates.With liquor.The alcohol numbs the past.And the present.I get it.I hate it, but I get it.The man who is my father beat the crap out of me for years too.But I don’t think about those years.“Can’t you see them, Carter? They’re tiny glass bugs digging into my skin with their claws! Get them off! Help! They’re eating me!”My mom’s crazy enough without the alcohol.With the booze, though, she’s like gasoline and fire.I look at the empty bottle of Jack by the sink and wonder where she got it.She probably bought it on one of her ‘good’ days and hid it in the house.I sigh and try to reassure her.“Mom, there are no bugs.You’re fine.” I say this with sensitivity.I don’t talk down to her or belittle her—ever.The man who is my father did enough of that.“But Carter! I see them! Can you not see them? They’re black with green eyes!” She’s desperately scratching at her skin now.I sigh and try to take her drunken body into my arms.If I can get her to the couch and turn on some trashy talk show, she’ll calm down.“Don’t touch me! They’ll get you!” she screams.I stand very still and play the game.“All right.I promise I won’t touch you.What can I do to help? Some bug spray, maybe?”I want to scream.Her eyes light up and my chest hurts.“Yes! Oh, Carter, you’re amazing! Yes! Bug spray!”“Okay, stay right here, I’ll go get some.” I walk down the hall to the closet where we used to keep cleaning agents, chemicals, bleach and, well, bug spray.A few years ago I got smart and replaced the contents of each bottle with plain water.I did this after my mom almost died of chemical poisoning because she drank a bottle of kitchen cleaner ‘to help with the digestion of the gnomes’.I was so afraid she was going to die.After we got home from the hospital, I threw up in the back yard and went into the house to switch out all the cleaners.The real stuff is in my room, locked in a file cabinet.I grab the fake bug spray and return to the kitchen.My mom’s got a knife to her hand, trying to scrape the invisible bugs from her arms.“Mom! Don’t!” I freak out, of course.She looks at me and I try to compose myself.“The, uh, bugs like the steel, mom.You gotta use bug spray.” I raise the spray bottle filled with water and pray she believes me.She nods, “Oh, you’re so right! Thank you!” She puts down the knife and I exhale.“Okay, mom.Stand still.”She freezes and I spray her down with misty water, disposing of the nonexistent bugs.She closes her eyes and covers her mouth and nose.I’m winning her game, but I feel defeated.She’s now damp all over and smiling at me like a little kid at Disneyland.“Thanks sweetie! You’re the best son a mama could ever hope for!”I feel like crap.I smile and lead her into the living room.A talk show is already playing on the TV so I sit her on the sofa and promise to bring her some food.The sofa is orange and brown, torn at almost every seam, and smells like baby powder.When I was four I dumped an entire bottle of baby powder on the couch because it looked like snow and clouds.My poor mom tried to scrub the powder out for days without success.So the couch smells like me…when I was four.And for whatever reason that makes me sad.I look at my mother, with her messy dark hair and cloudy eyes, and try to see the woman she used to be.I watch her closely, as if at any moment she’ll magically awake from this nightmare of a disease and be back to the normal mom-figure she was when I was young.Nothing changes, though.She’s engrossed in her talk show and oblivious to my presence.I sigh and head back to the kitchen where I brace myself against the stained and cracked countertop.For a moment I close my eyes, listening to the booing audience from the talk show in the other room.My mother starts to boo along with them in excitement.I open my eyes and stare at the kitchen floor.Once upon a time, she read me books and tied my shoes and played Monopoly with me.Once upon a time, she was a beautiful woman with a healthy mind and a loving touch.That woman is now gone.Living in her body is a tortured soul who’s been broken.I hate the monster who broke her.I look down at the nasty scar that stretches from the back of my neck to my elbow.The monster broke me too, but I healed.For the most part.I look out the kitchen window and see Sophie sitting at her table with the kids.The table wobbles as she points to something in front of Abram and nods.There’s a plate with some brown fruit on the table.My chest hurts again.Chloe spills her cup and water goes everywhere.Sophie shoots up and starts grabbing homework and papers off the table while the boys are laughing.Sophie throws the papers on the counter and grabs a towel [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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